Blind Spot
by Tom Beaumont
Summary: **Chapter 6 NOW UP** AU. When Seattle PI George O'Malley finds out that his card was in a dead stranger's jacket, he wants to know the connection between himself and the victim, but soon discovers that there's an even more sinister plot unfolding right before his eyes. (Will showcase many GA characters in different roles.) Rated M. Read. Review. Share with friends.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

Friday morning. I snapped awake. My chest jerked upward, and my head went with it, like somebody had put a million volts through me.

I could feel my heart pounding against my ribs, and it took a moment or two of deep breaths for me to slow it. I scrambled through my immediate memories, trying to figure out what woke me. Was it the alarm clock? Did I set it to ring too early?

No. It was on the night table, ticking away the seconds. The hands indicated that it was just after 7:15 a.m., and wasn't scheduled to go to work until 9.

So was it a knock on my door? A phone ring? Maybe ... but probably not. People who knew me or needed my services didn't tend to reach out that early.

My eyes pulled focus and I scanned my tiny bedroom from floor to ceiling and corner to corner. Nothing to see. I had an inclination to put my head back down on the pillow, but I knew it was a pointless move. I wasn't getting back to sleep now.

I rolled off the creaky double bed that I'd settled against a windowless wall and headed to the barely-three-quarter bathroom in the back of my apartment for something that could be called a shower, but only by the most charitable folks. As I stripped out of the shirt and slacks I'd slept in, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The late nights following tomcatting husbands or gold-digging wives or some variation on the theme were catching up to me. I yawned, and noticed that the steam from the shower stall did a fair job obscuring my exhausted eyes.

But not that fair. "You look like a damn fugitive from an undertaker's workshop, George O'Malley," I muttered. A yawn rolled through me as I turned toward the hissing water and stepped through the curtain.

The hot water – what there was of it – did a decent job clearing the clouds from my brain. I finished dressing for the day, feeling a rumble of hunger in my belly. A vision of crisp bacon and sunny-side-up eggs on a clean white plate drifted past, making the rumble more insistent.

To tell the truth, I was in no rush to open up my office this morning; nothing of any urgency was waiting for me there. I glanced at the closed door of the closet that I'd converted to a makeshift darkroom. The pictures I'd taken of Mr. Don Keller (or "Seattle's DeSoto King," as he liked to call himself) and the woman who was certainly not Mrs. Keller – even though she'd been listed as such on the Seaview Motel registry – romping on that mattress last night were going to be just as helpful to his wife's attorney (and profitable to me) tomorrow as they would be today.

So I decided that I had the day off. I looked in the mirror again, and told the guy looking back at me to watch the fort. He said it right back to me, the wiseass.

* * *

><p>"You want butter or jam for your toast?" the tired-eyed waitress at Eddie's Diner asked, in that flat, bored tone she and ninety-five percent of her counterparts always seemed to have.<p>

"Jam. Strawberry, if you've got it," I replied.

"Yeah, okay," she said absently, scribbling on her order pad as she sauntered away from my perch at the counter.

I grabbed the coffee mug she had just topped off for me and took a sip as I watched her leg it through the kitchen's swinging doors. The coffee – strong and black and hot – hit my sweet spot, and for the blink of an eye, all was right with the world.

That sensation ended the instant I noticed the two plainclothes detectives plunking down at the stools flanking me. One was Lieutenant Derek Shepard, a rising star in the Seattle department, and my former mentor and partner on the force. He wasn't the one who was talking to me, though.

"Detective George O'Malley," the one on my right said with an unfriendly grin in his voice. I recognized it as Owen Hunt's, and my mood soured a little more. "I'm sorry. Ex-Detective." He overemphasized the "ex" part, like he enjoyed the sound of it. "How's the dirty picture racket these days?"

"Pretty damn good, actually," I replied, keeping my voice cheery. "People complain about divorce rates going up, but all I hear is a symphony of ringing cash registers."

"You're a creep," Hunt said. "A low-life, bottom-feeding creep."

Pots and kettles, I thought. "Hey, Detective Hunt, how's Marcie?"

His grin was gone but quick. "What?" he hissed.

"Marcie," I said. "That sweet little brown-eyed cookie you nibble on when you get even just a wee bit tired of playing the doting husband to Linda." I took another sip of coffee and looked at him over the rim of the cup. "Or should I say one of your cookies? I mean, Marcie knows she's not the only dessert you sample, right?" I asked, with a little wink.

Hunt grabbed my lapel and spun me to face him and his reddening cheeks. My coffee sloshed over the edge of the cup and splashed on the floor, somehow missing us both. "That's enough outta you, you piece of – "

"That's enough outta both of you," said the man behind me who clamped a hand on my shoulder and pulled me back from his partner's grasp. "This is a nice place with a nice atmosphere. No need to make it messy."

"Thanks, Lieutenant Shepard," I said, my eyes still on Hunt's. "You always did have a calming influence. So what do you and Detective Sweet Tooth want, other than to ruin my breakfast?"

Shepard turned me to face him. "You heard about the shootings behind the cleaners at 12th and Oak last night?"

"No," I said. "That's on the edge of Frank Vinatieri's territory, right?"

"Yeah," Shepard said. He nodded at Hunt, who pulled a rolled newspaper out of his jacket and slapped it on the counter. I turned my head just in time to watch his hands unfurl the black and white image of splayed, bullet-riddled bodies on a dank backstreet. "**THREE DEAD, ONE WOUNDED IN ALLEY SHOOT-OUT,**" the banner headline shouted.

"Word I'm hearing is that Frankie Vee's goons have been given marching orders to secure his territory, block-by-block, if necessary," Shepard continued. "Then seal it up water-tight."

"Or as water-tight as you can get in Seattle," I said. "So why talk to me? This is police business."

"God damn right," Hunt said with a hard frown.

"One of the dead men had your business card on him," Shepard said, pointing to the body in the left corner of the picture. "Ernest Maxwell. He had a California driver's license on him too, said he was out of San Francisco. Know that name?"

I quickly ransacked my brain, looking for it in as many nooks and crannies as I had. To admit, I wouldn't have said much if I did know the guy, but truth be told, the name Ernest Maxwell wasn't ringing any one of my bells, not even faintly. "I hand out my share of business cards, sure, but only to clients or sources, and only around Seattle proper," I said with a shrug. "And, since you probably already know, I'll cop to having done some snoop work in San Francisco, but it's been a year or two, at least."

Shepard sized me up. "So you're saying you've got nothing for me."

I looked him square in the eye. "Look, Derek, if there's one person I can't get away with lying to, it's you. And if I had any clue who this guy was, we wouldn't have gotten this far into the conversation anyway. Sorry, but I'm no good to you on this one," I said, just as my waitress was returning with my breakfast plate.

"Told ya, Shep," Hunt chuckled humorlessly. "Shiftless ex-detective sleazeballs like O'Malley here aren't worth wasting time spitting on, much less talking to, am I wrong?" He snatched a piece of toast off my plate and crunched into it, sneering at me all the while.

The urge to wipe that smug look off Hunt's face was becoming unbearable, but knowing that he was itching for the opportunity to slap the bracelets on me, I elected to avoid giving him that satisfaction. The corners of my mouth tugged upward as I spun away from the counter and pointed myself toward the door, grabbing the paper as I went.

Then, for some reason, as I sprang from the stool, the suddenness of my movement caught Hunt off-guard. His left loafer skidded through the spilled coffee on the tile and sent him face first into my bacon and eggs. He growled in frustration, pushed himself back to his feet and into a fighting pose, steam practically blasting from his ears. Shepard immediately stepped in front of his partner and growled something in a low voice to him. Hunt's nostrils flared and he glared at me, but his fists unballed, and his hands dropped to his sides.

"Take off, O'Malley," Shepard said. "Now."

"Thanks for buying – and eating – my breakfast, fellas. Don't forget to leave a nice tip for the waitress," I said, heading for the door. As I left, I took one last look at them – Hunt literally with egg all over his face, and Shepard's eyes pleading for me to leave. "And here I was thinking Hunt was more of a dessert guy," I added with a grin.

Could've sworn I heard Shepard laugh out loud at that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

I headed back to the office, my blood still pumping from the exchange at the diner, and my mind flipping the name Ernest Maxwell over and over, like it was a magician's playing card and I was trying to figure out how he'd turned an ace of spades into a joker. Why would a stranger have my name and number in his pocket? Did I actually know him from that time in San Francisco? Was he a client there? A snitch? The photo in the paper didn't show much of his face, so maybe he was somebody I'd had contact with – but when? And why? As I realized I was about to reach the front door, I tugged the mailbox key from my pocket, the questions still bubbling.

"G'Morning, O'Malley," I heard from behind me, breaking my train of thought. It was Richard Webber, the owner of the barber shop on the first floor of the building.

"Hey, Richard," I replied. "How's business?"

"Slow," he groaned. "Like a lot of mornings."

"And the action?" I said with a knowing smile. Richard's shop was, once upon a time, his main source of income, but it now ran a fairly distant second to his backroom bookmaking operation. A neighborhood bookie like Richard could operate with relatively little interference – he wasn't a threat to the organized crime bosses or lawmen, mainly because he was small-time, with no inclination to grow. He steered big money bettors to big money operations, paid out to winners without a whine or welch, and if he had to collect from you, all he'd ask for (most of the time, anyway) was what you owed. A lot of people might have thought he was a sucker or a fool, but Richard Webber's ounce of integrity meant that he always had a pound of cash in his pockets – and sometimes closer to a ton, honestly – with plenty more where that came from.

So it sort of surprised me when he frowned at the question. "Dead," he said. "With a capital D."

I came down off the step toward him. "That's a surprise. Friday's usually your best day."

"Uh-huh. Until Frankie Vee decided to put down some dogs last night," Richard shuddered. "Talk about dead."

"I heard about that. Just talked to some cops about it, actually," I replied, going back up the step and opening my mailbox. Three envelopes today, only one of them with any potential. I pocketed all of them.

"You?" Richard asked. "What'd they want from you?"

"One of the men who was killed was carrying a business card of mine."

"You're kidding."

"Nope. Guy's name was Maxwell. From San Francisco."

Richard's eyes narrowed. "You know him?"

I shook my head. "Never heard of him."

"I guess he was important enough to Frankie Vee to get killed." Richard cocked his head. "Want me to put an ear to the ground? For my usual rate, of course," he said with a sly grin.

"Of course," I replied, reflecting his expression. Then I dropped my eyes a little. "Actually, if you wouldn't mind, I could use the info," I said. "Just play it close to the vest."

"Hey, it's Frankie Vee we're talking about here," Richard muttered. "You know I don't want him suddenly caring about my presence."

"True. But there's also another party."

"Who?"

"My old partner on the police force – "

"Shepard?"

"Yeah, him. He's on this one. And his current partner, Owen Hunt."

The bracing chill of my tone caught in Richard's ear. "So he's no friend."

"Let's just say that if either of those two find me – or anybody I might know – snooping around their case, it won't end with us splitting a pitcher of beer," I said. "Frankie Vee might just be a more pleasant option, at least for me."

Richard nodded. "I'll take it easy." He started back to his shop. "Well, enough chit-chat. Time for me to get some work done."

"So you're – "

"Cutting hair. All day. And until further notice."

I rubbed the stubble on my cheek. "I'll take a shave."

He cast a mock-critical eye at me. "Damn right you will. Four o'clock."

* * *

><p>I read the newspaper's story about the killings while cooling my heels at my desk. Besides Maxwell, the shootings had knocked off one of Vinatieri's men, a goon named Bobby DeLuca. The other dead guy was one Henry Burlington, also of San Francisco; I figured he was with Maxwell.<p>

The lone survivor of the shootout was someone I recognized, though I couldn't say I knew him personally – Alex Karev.

Karev had been an on-the-rise middleweight boxer before shipping off to serve in Korea in spring of '51; decent hands, better-than-average power, good base and footwork. I remembered going with Richard to one of Karev's cash fights on the city club circuit the year before he went to war, how he took a lot of hard shots in the early rounds but kept coming back and coming back and coming back. A minute into the eighth, his left jab split open the bridge of the other boxer's nose, and that little whipcrack gave him the opening he needed to land a hard right cross that sent the other fighter to the canvas.

I remembered thinking as the ref raised Karev's hand in the air that night that he had a decent shot at some bigger fights, but it wasn't to be; he was drafted into the Army a month or so later. Fall of '52, I heard from Richard he was back in town, training at his old gym, even. But nobody showed an interest in giving him a fight, and he seemed to fall off the face of the earth.

Until last night, that is, I thought.

I dove back into the story, trying to glean a few more facts to work with – and found some. "Mr. Karev was transported to Seattle General Hospital, where he was treated and released," the newsprint declared, so matter-of-factly I could practically hear the police spokesman. That such a meaningless piece of information was being floated out there meant that the cops were likely going to be keeping an extra couple eyes on Karev for a while, see who his visitors were, if he started spending extra dough – or if he disappeared completely.

I knew more than a few people at Seattle General, and most of them even sort of liked me – as long as I had some spending cash I didn't mind parting with – so I decided it was worth the cab fare to see if I could get any details on Karev's brief stay. I slid open desk drawers until I finally found the tin petty cash box. I noticed underneath the box was my dad's old .45 pistol, still in its spotted and dried-up leather holster.

For a moment, I thought about the old man.

I remembered all the hell he gave my brothers and my mom and me when he was drinking.

I remembered the Christmas morning he showed up in a full-on Santa Claus suit, giggling like a little kid as he showed all of us boys the brand new bikes he'd stayed up all night building.

I remembered the Lucky Strikes he used to chain from the moment he woke up to the moment he laid his head on the pillow.

And then, right on cue, I remembered the night my mom and his partner woke us up to tell us he wasn't coming home.

The last of the thoughts was threatening my mood, so I pushed them all – good and bad – out of my mind. I had somewhere to go.

As I made a quick count of fives and tens to take along, I considered taking the piece too. I decided against it; after all, I wasn't likely to run across a desperate need for having it. Plus all it would take was one nervous security guard or nurse at the hospital dropping a dime to the cops, and then I'd have Shepard – or worse, Hunt – to deal with. Having a pistol on my person would give either one of them a reason to wonder what I was up to, and they could haul me in for whatever questioning they saw fit. It wasn't worth the risk.

Besides, I wasn't sure if it'd spit bullets or bust into dust, anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Seattle General was one of the city's oldest hospitals, built in the late 1890s, but it always looked like a stiff breeze would topple the structure, regardless of how much brick and concrete made up its exterior. Nothing inside the building was built to last, either; to put it plainly: I wouldn't have gone there for a scrap of tissue to treat a shaving cut.

But I would – and frequently did – go there for a scrap of information to solve a case. The staff – be they medical, surgical or janitorial – had been overworked and underpaid since the privately-owned hospital's first day, or so it seemed, because they had little trouble spilling details about who was staying in which room and why, or leaving patient files in plain view of anyone who didn't mind opening their wallet a little.

Since Karev's visit was a very recent one, I was hopeful that today would mean I'd walk out with a few bucks left in my pocket. My mood lightened as I approached the reception desk, just behind the waiting area, because I recognized the young, fresh-faced nurse hunched behind the typewriter, hunting and pecking. "Hey, Nurse Neill," I said with a warm smile.

She stopped her one-finger typing and offered me her usual coy, playful grin. "George O'Malley," she purred.

That soft tone tickled my ears. "How's your day been, Maggie?" I asked.

"Better now," she said. "Where have you been hiding yourself, handsome?"

I chuckled. "Under a ton of work," I said. "And that's sort of why I'm here."

She pretended to pout. It only made her cuter. "So I guess I'm just a little speed bump for you, huh?"

I leaned forward on to the desk, resting on my forearms, bringing myself closer to her. "Is Benny here today?" I asked. "I'd like to see him."

"Really, huh? Benny?" Maggie stood up and met me halfway. "Am I not good enough for you?"

I had to smile, a bit surprised and pleased at her boldness. "Did I say that?"

Her closeness to me meant that I couldn't help but notice the soft, sweet scent of the soap she used to wash her strawberry blonde hair. I immediately thought about what a crime it was that she always had it to have it pulled back into a tight bun and hidden away under a cap. A few images of her, lathering up, floated through my mind.

"You want to see him?" she asked. "I'd like to see you."

More delightful boldness. Normally she and I would dance around each other, but today she'd actually taken the lead. I liked it. I'm not one of those fellows who prefers shrinking violets, anyway. I tilted my face a bit. "You busy tonight?"

"Maybe not," she replied. "You?"

"Maybe not," I said.

"Benny's on the fourth floor, cleaning out a patient's room," she replied, leaning her lips to a tantalizing distance from mine. "Room 405, I think."

"You're the best," I said, giving her a peck on the cheek and feeling her skin flush a bit underneath it. "Pick you up at 7," I whispered in her ear, just before I hit the stairs. "And put on your best dress. I'll take you someplace nice."

* * *

><p>Benny was pushing his cart down the fourth-floor hallway by the time I reached him, finished with whatever cleanup had been required in room 405. I showed up at his elbow before he reached the elevator. "Hey there, Benny," I said. "How's tricks?"<p>

As soon as he caught a glimpse of me, he looked like a deer that was caught in the headlights of an oncoming Buick. "O'Malley," Benny replied in a hushed, unhappy tone. "You shouldn't be here."

"What?" I asked. "I come bringing sunshine and brightness. And cash." I held out a folded five-dollar bill. "I need some information about a guy who was a patient here, name of Alex Karev."

Benny, to my surprise, pushed my hand away without extracting the money. "I can't talk to you," Benny said.

I doubled the fives. "How about now?"

"No, dammit," he hissed, pushing the money away again. "Get lost."

I was becoming irritated at Benny's bristling. "What's your problem?"

His eyes met mine with a mixture of frustration and pleading. "I could lose my job just for talking to you, okay? So just – "

A hard, clear female voice appeared in my ear. "What's going on here, Rodriguez?"

Benny snapped to attention. "Nothing, ma'am," he said.

The voice wasn't impressed. "Uh-huh. Get down to the cafeteria right now and help Howard finish up with the floor. He's moving like molasses again."

"Yes, ma'am," Benny replied, not dropping his posture.

"What are you waiting for, a kiss on the cheek? Get going."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, spinning on a heel and quick-marching his cart down the hall.

I turned a little to my left and saw who Benny had been answering. It was a nurse I'd never laid eyes on before. She was a couple of inches shorter than me, but she radiated the steely toughness of the more-hardened platoon sergeants I'd had during my time in France and Italy back in '44 and '45. I felt myself snapping to attention, just like Benny had. "This is a hospital, not a social club," she said. "And visiting hours don't start until this afternoon. So unless you are a patient or staff member, you have absolutely no rhyme or reason to be standing here, George O'Malley."

The casual sharpness of her reply knocked me back a bit. That, and the total stranger in front of me knowing my name. "I'm sorry – " I started.

"Damn right you're sorry," she finished. "Beat it."

"Hold on. How do you know me?"

She looked me over with distaste. "Your reputation precedes you around here," she muttered. Her voice was so cold, I could've sworn I saw icicles hanging off the words. "Besides that, you walked into my hospital and tried to get someone here to be your snitch."

I did my best to fake a laugh. "Snitch? Benny? No. He's an old friend."

The charge nurse looked up at me, a huge – and hugely false – grin on her face. "Well, then, that doesn't change a damn thing!" she proclaimed cheerily. Then the grin disappeared and she growled, "Get out of my hospital, O'Malley. Get out or I'll have you thrown out."

I put my hands up in surrender, and said, "Fine, I'm going." I tried to sneak a glimpse at her name tag, but she seemed to look up at that very moment.

"Leering at my chest, O'Malley?" she glowered. "Bit of a deviant, I suppose? No wonder you got busted off the Seattle police force."

I blushed. And then I blushed at my blushing. "I just wanted to know the name of the person I'll be assigning to the top of my list of people to avoid from now on," I said, trying to keep from stammering.

"Miranda Bailey," she replied, as she spun on her heel and stalked away. "And make sure to include the entire staff of Seattle General," I heard her add. "Since you're making lists."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

I was in Richard's throat-cutting chair at 3:58 on the dot. He draped a clean hot towel on my face and let it rest there. "So Seattle General's out of bounds now," he said.

"Yeah," I groaned through the towel. "You know, there's a part of me that's glad to see that kind of professional attitude – "

"Who can't appreciate integrity?" Richard interjected, removing the towel and beginning to brush warm shave cream onto my cheeks and jaw.

"Yeah, right. But in my line of work, no news isn't good news." I shuddered. "And that Nurse Bailey. Between you and me, I dealt with Nazis who weren't as stone cold as she was."

Richard chuckled. "Put you in a foul mood, I guess?"

I matched his tone. "Yeah, I suppose."

"Well, then, maybe I have something that'll brighten your day."

I straightened up in the chair. "Tell me you found out something about Maxwell."

"Struck out on that so far, sorry to say, but I heard from a couple of my guys over at Alex Karev's gym." He finished with the brush and went for the straight razor, and started sharpening it against the leather strap. "Or what used to be his gym."

"Whoa, slow down," I said. "How'd you know I was looking into Karev?"

"I can add," he said with a little smile, jutting his thumb at the newspaper on his chair.

"Fair enough," I replied. "So what do you mean 'used to be his gym'?" That little crumb of a detail had made me rise a little from the chair. "What happened?"

Richard frowned at me. "Clam up so I don't slice your face to ribbons and I'll tell you."

I caught a glint off the surgical steel he was handling out of the corner of my eye. "You do have a way of making sense to me," I said, relaxing into the seat again.

"July of '52. Sergeant Alex Karev was in Tokyo on three-days leave from his Army unit, sort of as a reward from his commanding officer," Richard said, as he put the blade to my cheek and began to clear away the two days of growth.

"He was a sergeant?"

"Mm-hm. This was his second go-round in the Army. He served in France and Italy, too, probably around the same time you were over there."

"Except he probably didn't catch any shrapnel," I groaned.

"Boy," Richard said, in a semi-sinister tone, "you're about to catch a straight razor to your jugular if you don't clam up."

Again, the man just knew how to make sense.

"Anyway," Richard said, going back to work, "on his first night, he's touring the GI bars and whatnot with some of the other guys from his platoon, and – at one place or another – he started getting caught up in some not-so-friendly jawing with a couple of Marines, taller and broader fellas who were already three or four beers ahead."

"That's no good," I mumble.

"And it isn't gonna get better. One or two at a time out of Karev's group call it quits for the night at each stop. By the sixth or seventh place, he's all alone."

"I'm just gonna take a wild guess that this story doesn't end with ice cream sundaes," I said.

"Bingo," Richard said, pointing at me so I would know to stop talking long enough so he could finish shaving under my chin. "The Marines had been trailing him all night. They jump him, drag him into an alley and took him apart – broke his jaw, busted out his left eardrum, cracked a half-dozen of his ribs."

"Shit." It was the only word I could think to say.

"But that's not the worst part," Richard said.

"It's not," I said, a bit mystified.

"Not by a longshot." Richard let out a long breath. "You remember Jimmy Fitch?"

I had to flip the name over once or twice, and then it clicked. "He owns Karev's gym."

"Plus he has controlling interest in a bunch of others all over the country - New York, Atlantic City, Chicago, Philadelphia."

"I didn't know that."

"Neither did I. But he's got fighters everywhere, maybe the biggest stable in the U.S. today."

"And Karev was on that list."

"Until the poor bastard got home."

"Wait a minute. It was Fitch who cut him loose? Why?"

"He saw Karev's face."

I shook my head. "And he sent Karev to a doctor."

"To **his** doctor, even." Richard let out a sigh as he stepped into my line of sight, his face grim. "The thumping those Marines gave Karev led to a permanent blind spot on the outside of his right eye," he said, tapping a finger on my brow to illustrate where the man's vision had been lost. "It's not enough to keep him from walking down the street without a cane and a tin cup, but – "

"No doc with an interest in keeping his nose clean will clear him to fight." I shook my head, finally understanding Richard's expression. "Meaning he can't get a boxing license from the city or the state commissions."

"Yep." Richard studied my face, then motioned for me to lift my chin. "And since Karev had been one of Fitch's up-and-coming fighters, word spread fast and wide about him and his eye."

"Meaning he was pretty much worthless to Fitch or anybody else in the business," I said, feeling the blade clearing away the last stray hairs.

"Can't be in anybody's stable, can't have a cash fight at a club, hell, he can't even be some glass jaw's sparring partner," Richard said with a grimace. "Karev went from one of Fitch's golden boys to a never-was in the time it took for some drunk son of a bitch to land a sucker punch."

With one last stroke, Richard was done with my shave. He found another clean towel and wiped away the rest of the foam from my face. "_Voila._ Now you look somewhat presentable."

"Thanks. So how's he paying his bills?" I asked.

"Lots of part-time stuff," he replied, wetting his hands with aftershave, then putting the bracing alcohol on my face. I cringed a bit as the liquid bit into me. "Washing dishes, mopping floors, that sort of thing."

"Where?" I asked as the buzzing pain on my face faded.

Richard's grin was sudden and dazzling. He shook his head like he was trying to wipe it away, but it refused to depart.

"Oh, for cryin' out loud," I said. "Where is he working?"

He looked like he knew he was giving me a present I didn't want, but couldn't possibly reject, and it was delighting him just a bit more than it should. "The Silver Swan," he said.

My heart simultaneously sank and soared, which felt as unusual as you'd imagine.

Richard noticed the look on my face. "Hey, maybe she won't be there when you go," he said, trying to curtail a boyish giggle.

"Yeah," I groaned. "And maybe I'll trip over a million bucks on the way."

* * *

><p>I headed back to the office, trying to plot my next move. Finding out where I might locate Karev had scrambled my evening's priorities a bit. Sure, I'd promised Maggie a date tonight, but I didn't want to miss an opportunity to talk to Karev, if only to find out what he was doing in the middle of that back alley bloodbath. Maybe he was involved, maybe he was just a bystander who happened to catch a bullet. I wouldn't know until I had a chance to ask.<p>

I grabbed the newspaper again and flipped pages until I found the ads for the nightclubs. The Silver Swan's was the biggest one in the newsprint.

**TONIGHT! ONE NIGHT ONLY! **

**_An exclusive evening with _**

**_Seaside Records recording artist Nina Rogers _**

**_and the Silver Swan Orchestra!_**

A strange sense of relief rolled through me. I could take Maggie along, mix business with pleasure, and not worry about crossing any paths I didn't want to disturb. I hadn't walked through the Swan's gates in a while, anyway, and to be honest, I missed it. Not a lot, sure, but enough.

I took off my jacket and noticed the envelopes still in the inside pocket. I pulled them out and glanced at them. The thick one on top was the electric bill, the thin one in the middle was a bank check from a client who owed me a couple extra bucks for overtime on a snoop job. The last one, however, I'd somehow managed to overlook completely. No stamp on it, no return address. Some detective, I mused.

I was about to slip my finger under the seal when my desk phone jangled. I dropped the envelope and pulled up the receiver. "O'Malley," I said, somewhat distracted.

"First ring," a woman's voice answered. "Sitting by the phone and waiting for my call, yes?"

My distraction disappeared as I recognized the voice, throaty and haughty and cool. It belonged to one woman and one woman only. "Miss Yang," I said. "How's your empire?"

"Thriving," she replied. "And I trust you're on your best behavior." I could almost see that sly little smirk in her voice forming before my eyes, and I couldn't help but imagine her reclined on that ornate fainting couch in her parlor where I'd first met her, wearing that red-and-black silk robe that flattered her legs quite nicely.

"Naturally," I said. "What can I do for you?"

The coolness stayed in her voice, but an all-business edge formed in it. "I take it Ernie Maxwell never caught up to you."

I felt myself frown and smile at the same time as another fact snapped into place. "So it was the queen of the San Francisco black market who gave him my card," I said. "And here I was wondering how he had gotten his mitts on it."

Her voice shrugged. "He was supposed to extend you a job offer from me."

"To do what?" I asked.

"Maxwell was a courier," she replied. "One of my best, actually. He was supposed to drop off a small package with my contact at the sea port."

"A package? Of what?"

I heard her chuckle a bit. "Carrots."

"How many?" I said with a smile.

"Enough to seal a deal I already have with the head of the dock workers' union there."

Naturally. It didn't take long to remember how far-reaching Yang's connections were - and had to be - if she wanted to keep her business going. "You told me about it once, right? They give your cargo twice-weekly, pre-arranged access - "

"And I pay them a fair price to make sure no one untoward makes off with it."

Untoward. A Yang word if I'd ever heard one. And she said it like she was enjoying the taste of the word on her tongue. I tried to force the image of her rising from that fainting couch, robe slipping open, out from between my ears. "So what was my part in your payoff plan?" I asked, trying to freeze my veins.

She dropped a little pout into her voice, which didn't help. "As a local face. A good, upstanding citizen of Seattle who'd vouch for me and my sincerity in wanting to make it a thrice-weekly thing for a reasonable bump."

"And I could swing a fist, if need be."

I could practically hear her shrug. The robe closed in my mind's eye. "That wasn't likely. Burlington was the man for that."

"You thought Maxwell needed muscle?"

"Sort of," she said. "Ernie Maxwell was getting a little gray at the temples, soft in the midsection. Burlington was young. Ambitious. Good with his fists, too, but green," I heard Yang say, like she was reading his character traits off a card, which - knowing her - wasn't entirely out of the realm of possibility. "When I threw out the chance to have someone partner up with Maxwell for this trip, Burlington volunteered."

"And now they're both dead."

"Unfortunately." She paused for a moment. "Now I'm on the hook. I had a deal in place, and until I heard about my guys this morning, I thought it was done. I had already cabled my suppliers in Hong Kong with the news that I'd be commissioning an additional cargo shipment every week starting next month."

"Which could certainly affect your carrot supply."

I could almost feel her smile. "Which brings me back to you."

"You want me to find you a killer."

"And a thief."

I straightened my jaw. "The case is a hot one. There are cops here working it who would rather toss me off a pier than help. I have one lead to follow, and maybe not for long. So my price is a hell of a lot higher that it would have been."

"Tell me."

"I want half of whatever was stolen. And that's non-negotiable."

It took her a moment to respond, but I could hear a thrum of excitement in her voice when she spoke. "Now this is a delicious turn," she said. "I wasn't prepared to offer anything near that, O'Malley."

"Take it or take your chances with somebody else."

She responded with a slow, rich laugh. "Okay. You've got a deal," she said. "But you have seven days to deliver, and not a second more. Otherwise, this is our last friendly phone call."

"I believe you," I said. "See you soon."

"You'd better," she replied. "I hate having to bury friends." And then the line went dead.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

The Silver Swan was among Seattle's premier nightclubs: good music, rich food, fine spirits. The women escorted here wore their best gowns, the men were expected to squire them in nothing less than a suit and tie. You didn't dare even consider a visit to the Swan without a roll of cash for the tips you'd need to pay. It was a once-in-a-blue-moon destination for the working stiffs, a regular stop for those with upper-crust tastes. As I peeled a couple of fives from my money clip to pay the cab driver who had dropped us off at the door, I noticed Maggie's arm tightening its link with mine. Her blue eyes were saucer-wide.

"When you said you were going to take me somewhere nice, I didn't think it'd be here," Maggie said. "It's almost too much."

I felt a little tug at my heart. "We don't have to ... "

"No," Maggie said, relaxing and letting a smile rise on her cheeks. "I want to stay."

The tug faded as we started toward the doors. "Good. You've never been here, I take it."

"Nope. Don't even think I've even driven past it." Maggie's eyes drifted toward the mink stole draped over the shoulders of the woman just in front of her, and she seemed to involuntarily smooth the satin of her navy dress with her palms. "Feeling a bit underdressed right about now."

"You look like a dream," I said.

She rewarded me with a smile. "Thank you," she replied. "You clean up pretty nicely yourself."

We made it to the top of the third of the white-tiled steps, just behind the other couple. Two men were waiting at the main entrance. One was short and thin, with round eyeglasses perched on the tip of his nose; the other was tall and burly, wearing a tuxedo that would've fit him perfectly if he were only a hair shorter and fraction less barrel-chested. I overheard what sounded like the tail-end of a one-way conversation. "I'm sorry, sir," the short one said, in a clipped-yet-professional manner. "Tonight is a reservation-only night at the Silver Swan. I'm certain you understand."

The words must have Maggie's ears at the same time they hit mine, because she leaned closer to me. "So how are we getting in?" Maggie asked.

"I'm ... friendly ... with certain people here," I replied.

"Friendly?" she asked.

"You'll see," I said as we stepped forward to the podium by the heavy front doors.

The short man's eyes met mine, and his face broke into a wide grin. "George O'Malley!" he exclaimed.

I smiled. "How are you tonight, Dennis?"

"Very good! Very good indeed!" he replied, still excited.

"How are Anita and your boys?"

"Still settling in to the new house," he said. "Thanks to you."

"I think you're still giving me too much credit," I said.

"That's not possible, my friend," he replied. Then he leaned closer to me, and his voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone. "What's going on? Are you on a case?"

"Not tonight," I said, tilting my head toward Maggie.

Dennis nodded, offering a wry half-smile. "Of course," he said. "I'm sorry." He stood back again, a bit of a blush on his cheek.

"But I do need your help," I said, tipping my chin toward the reservation book. "Seems my secretary forgot to call ahead."

The short man's face brightened. "I think I can manage something for you," he replied. Then he crooked a finger at the larger man, who caught the signal and leaned over. "Lawrence. Take my friends to table 33, and along the way, find Pierre," he said. "Tell him that these people are to be well-cared for tonight." Dennis tossed a wink at me. "Well-cared for."

The big man nodded, and then pulled open the door. He gestured toward the music and light behind it. "After you," he said, in a unsurprisingly deep voice.

I stuck out an elbow for Maggie to latch on to, and she did. As we began to walk through the doorway, she tilted her head toward me. "Well-cared for?" she asked. "What does that mean?"

I smiled a little. "I haven't the foggiest idea. But it certainly sounds promising to me."

* * *

><p>As we crossed the threshold into the main room, I could hear the orchestra working its way through the usual dance numbers. Art Silver, the owner of the club, had his favorites, and his band would play them all, in the order he set down before the bandleader, with enough pause in between the songs to allow for couples to figure out if they should head back to their tables or not. Maggie clung tight to me, so close I could feel the thrum of her heart against my arm.<p>

"Just relax," I said, my face close to hers.

"I'm sorry," she replied. "It's just so crowded in here. I get nervous when I'm in large groups."

I nodded in sympathy. "Like I said, we don't have to stay," I said.

"No," she said, squeezing my hand. "I'll be all right." She took a breath, then apparently decided to change the subject. "So what did he mean, 'Thanks to you'?"

"Dennis?" I didn't really want to go too far into it, so I found an elemental truth of the matter. "I helped him and his wife with a ... misunderstanding."

"Misunderstanding?" Maggie asked with a laugh. "What kind of misunderstanding gets you treated like a prodigal son?"

"Prodigal son?" I replied. "I don't think there's going to be a fatted calf killed in my honor."

"Are you sure about that?" Maggie asked, pointing to where we were about to be seated.

Because I'd been walking directly behind the man-mountain called Lawrence, I hadn't noticed that he had led us through the crowd of clinking glasses and smoky conversation to a leather-upholstered booth near the stage, a catbird seat if there was one. He had grabbed the head waiter's attention somewhere along the way, and that man had followed us on our trek to the booth. Lawrence motioned for us to sit, and as we did, he muscled his way back into the crowd, but not before passing along the words Dennis had instructed him to speak. The waiter nodded, then offered us a smile as dazzling as his white dinner jacket.

"_Monsieur_,_ madame_, I am Pierre, the head waiter of The Silver Swan," he said, in a smooth, well-rehearsed speech, "and I am at your disposal for the evening. The menu is, of course, in front of you, but we have some very fine specials this evening - all compliments of the house. Would you like to hear them?"

"Do you have fatted calf?" Maggie asked, poking me in the arm.

Pierre's smile didn't fade. "I will check with the kitchen. In the meantime, would either of you care for a cocktail?"

"Scotch-rocks for me," I said.

"A gin and tonic over ice," Maggie added.

"I shall return in a moment," Pierre said, then he turned on his toes and zipped away.

"Compliments of the house?" Maggie grinned at me. "Now you have to tell me," she said.

I shook my head and half-grimaced, half-smiled. "I didn't really want to talk business tonight."

She chuckled. "Okay. No shop talk tonight." She sidled closer to me. "But soon."

The orchestra reached the end of their smoothly arranged version of "Moonlight Serenade" to a wave of applause, as the crowd began to dissipate from the dance floor. And then, the conductor took to the microphone, thanking the audience and tossing in a little light patter about the band. I stopped listening about halfway into his remarks; my eyes had begun to drift over the smartly dressed staff. Part of me was hoping to see Alex Karev among them, clearing dishes and empty glassware from the tables. I thought I spotted him once or twice, but those were merely phantoms.

Maggie squeezed my hand. "Distracted?"

"Yes," I sighed. "I'm sorry - I should be letting you take care of that, not my imagination."

"Oh, really?" she asked, a cute half-smirk on her lips.

"Mm-hmm," I replied with a smile.

She slid closer to me and linked her arm with mine. "I wonder what I can do?" she pretended to ask herself. Then she leaned toward my face, and pressed a quick, soft kiss against my lips. As she pulled back, I looked into her shining eyes.

"That works for me," I said.

"I thought it might," she replied.

As I leaned in for another distraction from my date, Pierre reappeared. "Your drinks, _monsieur, madame,_" he said, placing the glasses in front of us. "Are you prepared to order?"

_Pierre, mon frere_, I thought. "We need another minute," I said.

"Of course," he replied. "Take all the time you need." Then he was gone again.

"Now that's an impressive skill," Maggie said. "The Vanishing Pierre. He could take that act on the road."

I leaned over to her. "Forget about him. Where were we?"

She smiled. "Right about here, I think," she said, tilting her face toward mine.

" ... and that's why our drummer isn't allowed into Canada anymore," I heard the bandleader pronounce as a thunderous roar of laughter echoed around the room. The rush of sound startled me. "Ladies and gentlemen, once again, thank you for joining us at the Silver Swan tonight. Allow me to reintroduce the marvelous singer who has captivated us throughout this evening, and who has recently completed work on her first long-play record album. Please welcome once more to the stage, our own enchantress, Miss Calliope Torres!"

I froze. No. It couldn't be.

Maggie couldn't help but notice. "What is it, George?"

"Nothing," I lied, trying to let my sudden shock fade. _She wasn't supposed to be here. She was supposed to be off tonight._

But she wasn't. I watched her take the stage, looking like she'd been poured into the shimmering silvery gown she was wearing. Her long black hair shined under the light, her bronze skin glowed like it was lit from the inside. Then she smiled with warmth and appreciation for the applauding audience, which only seemed to turn up the lights.

And then the music started, and her lips parted, and that voice – all that smoke and soul and sweetness – rose into the air and began to swirl around me.

Maggie tapped my arm. "You okay?"

I mumbled something back to her. I don't think what I said could really be counted as a reply.

_She wasn't supposed to be here,_ I kept thinking.

Pierre was suddenly in my vision. "Sir, are you ready to order?"

"Yes," I said blankly. "The Porterhouse. Rare." Then I picked up my drink and downed it. "And another one of these," I said.

"I thought you were more of a sipper, O'Malley," a familiar feminine voice cooed behind me, blocking out Torres' tones.

I turned to see who was speaking, even though I didn't have to. When I caught a glimpse of the couple behind me - the woman dressed in a deep green satin gown, the man in a navy suit and tie - I forced a smile on to my face. It was going to be one of those nights, apparently.

Maggie must have noticed the tension of my expression through the back of my skull. "Who is that, George?" she asked.

"Meredith Shepard," the woman said. "And this handsome fella," she added, wrapping her arms around his elbow, "is my husband Derek."

"Lt. Derek Shepard," he said. "Of the Seattle Police Department."

They might as well have been jabbing me with a sharpened pencil in their attempts to cue an introduction. I stifled a groan as I spoke. "Lieutenant and Mrs. Shepard, this is Maggie. Maggie O'Neill."

"Your date is lovely, O'Malley," Meredith said, with a warm, toothy smile. "Don't you think so, sweetheart?"

"Yes, indeed. Way to go, O'Malley," Derek said, leveling his eyes at mine, holding a hard grin. "So what are you doing out here at the Swan?"

"Look at them, silly," Meredith said. "It's a first date."

"Yes, actually, it is," Maggie said.

"That's wonderful. I'm always telling my husband that O'Malley needs to get out more. Don't I, sweetheart? Don't I say that?" Meredith asked.

"Yeah. She's always saying that," Derek replied, not moving his gaze off me.

"Excuse me," Pierre said. The sound of his voice startled me a little – I had forgotten he was still there. "Would you want them to join you at your table?" he asked, and was apparently directing the question at me.

I looked at Maggie, not quite sure what to say.

She kept herself steady, then turned to Pierre. "Of course," she replied. "Any friend of George's is a friend of mine."

I forced a smile on my face. Then I pointed at my empty glass and said through a tight throat, "You can keep these coming."

* * *

><p>Ninety minutes later, I had finished my fifth drink of the night. It didn't keep me from feeling Derek's eyes drilling into me, even as he talked and laughed and ate. The anecdotes about their days and nights were beginning to wear on me - as did the fact that Meredith couldn't stop herself from telling all her favorite stories about my time as a rookie cop.<p>

"So George kicks at the door - that's right, isn't it, honey?" Meredith said.

"Mm-hm," Derek replied. His eyes danced a bit while mine were practically falling at his feet, begging for a reprieve.

"He kicks at the door - bam! - and nothing happens! So he tries again, and again, and again! And finally, after about the sixth kick - "

"Seventh," Derek said. _Yeah, rub that salt in, pal,_ I thought.

"Right, seventh. Well, it finally breaks in. And they get into the room, only to find that there's no one to be seen and one of the windows in the bedroom is wide open."

"The guy was gone?" Maggie asked.

"Yeah," Derek said. "With the wind."

Meredith was laughing steadily by now. "And then George said, 'I think I scared him off.'"

"And I said, 'Ya think?'" Derek added. And then he chuckled. "Some top flight policework there."

"I learned from the best," I muttered.

"Damn straight," he said.

Then Meredith took a slight breath, like words had been caught in her throat and she was trying to help them escape. "I need to powder my nose," she said. "Maggie, would you mind accompanying me?"

Maggie smiled and gave a quick nod. "Of course, Mrs. Shepard."

"Now, Maggie, if I've told you once tonight, I've told you a dozen times, call me Meredith, please," she said, elegantly sliding out of her seat and then waiting for Maggie to do the same.

"Yes. Meredith. Of course," Maggie replied.

"We shall return," Meredith promised, and with those words, they were on their way.

"Pretty girl," Derek said after they had gone. "You've got guts, fella, bringing her to the Swan. And with your ex singing tonight, too."

"Callie wasn't supposed to be here," I said, repeating the mantra. "And I've stayed away for nearly two years; I figured that this would be as good a night as any to impress a girl."

"You sure you aren't here to find Alex Karev?" he asked. "He works here, I heard."

I sniffed at that. Sure, it was true that I was wanting to find Karev, but I didn't have to admit it right away. This was part of the game, anyway. If I didn't show up here tonight, Derek would have been disappointed in me. "This is just a date, Derek. Dinner, drinks, dancing. She's impressed with the Swan and all its opulence, finds out what a charming, funny guy I am, maybe afterward I get to know whether she sleeps in a single or a double bed."

"So tonight's all about getting past first base?"

"Sure, why not?" I replied. "I like Maggie, okay? She's ... different. Fresh-faced. A little more pure, maybe," I exhaled, partially for effect. "I could use that now and again."

Derek studied me for a moment, then turned his eyes back to the room. "I suppose we all could," he said finally, taking another swig from his glass.

We sat in silence for a moment, listening to the band play. "Okay, O'Malley," Shepard said. "When Meredith gets back, I'll take her out for a spin on the dance floor. That should afford you a chance to see if you can get through your turn at bat."

"You generous rascal, you."

"And don't ever forget it."

At that, Meredith reappeared at the table, but without Maggie. "You're alone?" I asked.

"I'm sorry, George," she said, offering an apologetic smile. "Maggie came out of the powder room right behind me, and when I looked back, she had this kind of stricken look on her face, like she was feeling sick. Dennis was right nearby, and she asked him if the clock was right. When he said it was, she asked him to call a cab for her. He gave her one that was waiting at the door."

"She left?" I asked.

"She said she was sorry, but she had to leave."

"Did she say where she was going, or why?" I asked.

"No, she didn't," Meredith's eyes were sad. "I'm sorry, George."

"So your game got called, I guess," Derek said.

"Doesn't make any sense," I said. "When we were coming up the stairs here, she was nervous about something, like she was overwhelmed by the place. But she relaxed right away, and seemed genuinely happy to be here. Maybe I should have just followed my first instincts, taken her to a diner and a movie."

"Hey, O'Malley, you can't sweat this," Derek said. "Maybe she remembered that she had to work, or left her iron plugged in or something."

"Maybe," I said. "I'm gonna find Dennis, see if he can tell me if he knows anything else."

Just as I was about to stand up, Dennis materialized in front of me. "I'm sorry, George, I came as quickly as I could. Your companion told me to offer her sincerest apologies for leaving without telling you. She had remembered that she had switched on to a late shift tonight and had to get to Seattle General right away."

"See?" Derek said.

"But there was one odd thing," Dennis said. "After I had closed the door, I heard her ask the driver to take her to 8221 North King Street. Isn't that ... ?"

"Near the docks," I said. "And way far away from Seattle General or her apartment."

"That's what I thought," Dennis said. "Was that any help?"

"Actually, yes, Dennis." I reached into my pocket for my coat check ticket. "I need to get a cab, too."

"Of course," he said. "Oh, and there's something else." He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small card, then handed it to me. I opened it and read the words in a tight longhand scrawl, written over the imprint of a red lipstick kiss:

See me after the show.

Callie

"What is it?" I heard Meredith ask, as I looked to the stage and saw Callie at the microphone, swaying to the musical interlude.

I was pretty sure that I made eye contact with the siren - as evidenced by an upward turn of the corners of her mouth - as I replied, "An invitation I shouldn't accept - and can't refuse."

Then I turned back to Derek. "I need a favor."

"8221 North King?" he asked. "Yeah, I'm starting to wonder what's there myself."

* * *

><p>As I made the trip backstage to Callie's dressing room, I was quietly amazed at how automatic the movements were. I hadn't traveled this route in some time, but it felt like it had been minutes, not years. Her dressing room door was the same as I remembered - bright white wood with her name painted on it in gold script, framed by matte black brick. "It's open," she said as I raised knuckles to rap on it.<p>

I cracked the door a bit, not looking inside. "Are you decent?"

"As decent as I can be," she replied. "Come on in."

I stuck my head into the room. It was just as wide, bright and luxuriously appointed as I remembered: a wall-width vanity with a fully-lighted mirror, a few velvet-covered chairs and a fainting couch for her special guests, the cedar wardrobe full of gowns, the record player and silver music stand with sheet music. And Callie. She was seated in an wingback chair, still resplendent in her gown, legs crossed. She was sitting straight and tall, with held her head high and chest out, like a queen on her throne. The slits on either side of the gown flattered those glorious stems of hers, and her delightfully ample cleavage peeked over her tantalizingly low neckline. A full smile across her red lips completed her pose. "Long time, no see, Georgie-boy," she said.

Georgie-boy. Her friendly greeting for me. The last time she called me that was ... well, it had been a while. "I thought that was the agreement," I replied. "You remember, the one sealed by you throwing a large quantity of glass knick-knacks at my head?"

"Mm-hmm," she nodded, knitting her fingers together. "But time has a way of ... changing ... a person's perspective."

"So I'm no longer on your bad side?"

"I don't know," she said. "Let's get through the preliminaries first."

"Preliminaries?"

"Who was the girl?" she asked, leaning forward. "She was rather ... pretty."

"None of your business, Callie," I said with a thin smile.

"Ouch," she said. "I also noticed that your ex-partner had joined you. And her husband," she added with a wink.

I groaned. "How much more of this do I have to go through?"

She stood up and moved toward me, her hips swaying ever so slightly as she walked. It was a confident stride, comfortable. And she knew I couldn't evade her gaze. "Who was the girl?" she asked again.

"She's a nurse at General. We've flirted a little, but this is the first time we've gone out. She's sweet, she's mild - and she's still none of your business."

She studied my face, then shook her head a little, a tiny smirk on her face. "Okay," she said. "If you insist."

What the hell did she mean by that? I was about to say those very words when I decided that I didn't want to get into a fight with Callie about anything right now. I mean, she was speaking to me, for crying out loud, instead of calling for bouncers to drag me into the alley. "Can we talk about something else?"

"You mean Alex Karev."

I let out a chuckle. Callie Torres was no dummy. "Yeah, I am."

"Popular fella these days," she said.

"Meaning?"

"There've been more than a couple of people snooping around here, trying to catch on to his scent," she said, playing with her hair and standing a step too close to me. "Cops, a few no-neck henchmen from Frankie Vee's crew, a couple of out-of-town boys, too. Guessing that they haven't had much luck."

"Be square with me, Callie: have you seen him?" I asked, trying not to let the nearness of her heat my blood, but it was impossible. She had me exactly where she wanted me, and I could tell by the twinkle in her eye that she knew it.

She turned her back to me and lifted her hair, exposing the lovely length of her neck. "Unzip me," she said. "If you don't mind."

"I thought I lost those privileges," I said.

She turned her face partway back to me and threw a dazzling grin my way, all while keeping her hand on her head. "I only asked you to unzip me, O'Malley," she said, facing forward again.

I chuckled a bit, then unhooked the clasp above the zipper tab, and with a gentle tug, drew it down, exposing her soft, light brown skin. I stopped just as I exposed the back of her brassiere, with its hooks and eyes glinting in the light.

"Keep going," she said. "I need a little more room to maneuver out of this."

I grasped the tab again and tugged it down even further, all the way to the base of her spine. "That work for you?" I asked.

"Perfect," she replied, sashaying away. I couldn't help but watch, and by the way she was moving, I could tell she knew that.

"So? Have you seen him recently?"

She turned an eye back to me, gave me another slow, knowing grin, then said, "Nope," hitting the hard 'p' with a pucker and a pop. She then disappeared behind a changing panel. "What'd Karev do, knock up somebody's daughter? Or wife?"

"He took a bullet late last night."

Her head poked around the corner of the panel. "You're joking."

"Nope. In an alley on the 1200 block of Oak. Sole survivor of what appeared to be a mob shoot-out. He was treated at General and released."

"Huh," Callie said, ducking behind the panel again. "Karev doesn't seem the type to be getting into shoot-outs. He's the shy type. Keeps to himself most of the time." Then I heard a smile in her voice. "Unless there's a girl involved. He's quite the ladykiller."

"Is that so?"

"Mm-hm," she said.

"And you know this how?"

The smile expanded. "Jealous, O'Malley?"

"Curious, actually."

I could hear her shrug. "His tastes run toward the blonde and the not-that-single," she said. "Trust fund babies, mostly. And he doesn't have to try too hard catching their eyes. He looks and acts and seems like just the right amount of trouble, and around here, when the nights start running a little on the rich-yet-dull side, trouble is just what the doctor ordered."

"Any clue where I might find him?"

"Sure, plenty of 'em." Callie stepped back out from behind the panel, clad in a black satin robe. I pretended that I didn't remember it, or seeing it next to her bed more than once. She moved closer to me, close enough that I could smell her sweetly perfumed skin. "He's got an old sparring partner - Jake Voss - who lives in the back of one of the gyms in the warehouse district; you might get lucky, land a lead on him there." She tilted her head. "He's a bit punchy, this Voss. I'd tread lightly around him, if I were you."

"I'll be quiet as a mouse."

"Yeah, sure you will." She looked me dead in the eye and lowered her voice. "Seriously, Georgie-boy, you need to be careful."

"Why? You know something I don't?" I asked.

"That blonde tonight? Your date?"

I frowned. "What about her?"

"I got a bad vibe off her."

I smiled a bit. "Jealous, Torres?"

"No," she said, very softly. "I can't place it yet, but there's something that's all kinds of wrong about her."

I shook my head. "Maggie's a nurse at Seattle General. And a very nice girl."

"Yeah?" Callie sighed. "Then maybe I shouldn't trust my gut anymore." Then she gave me a kiss on the cheek, a gentle one. "Be careful, George," she whispered.

And then I saw her eyes again. The confidence had dropped away and was replaced with a vulnerability I hadn't seen in a long, long time.

She wasn't lying. Maggie had really spooked her. And no, she didn't know why.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

I made my way back through the crowd to the front of the Swan, flipping through Callie's words and actions. She was the same person she'd always been - cool, sexy and very smart. The reveal of information about Karev felt well-planned; clearly she had been waiting for me to come and ask about him, and I didn't disappoint. But then revealing her intuition about Maggie tilted the whole conversation on its side. Having me unzip her dress was strategic - the memory of her bare back was sparking embers in me, even at this moment - but telling me that something was off with the girl I'd brought to the club wasn't. She was warning me (or at least trying to warn me) about something, and maybe it was only a phantom that her mind conjured, but it wasn't an intentional misdirect.

I was still trying to unpack the puzzle when Dennis met me, his face tight, like he was trying not to burst. "What's the scoop?" he asked.

I shrugged, pretending to be nonchalant. "No scoop. Just Callie being Callie." It was true, mostly.

"Lieutenant Shepard left a little while ago. He called his partner just after you went back to the dressing rooms, and asked him to swing by and pick him up. He called a cab for his wife, then took off with - oh, what was his name?"

"Detective Sweet Tooth," I replied, feeling a reflexive grin pull up at the corners of my mouth.

"No, that's not it," Dennis said. "Hunt. Owen Hunt."

Glad I was in the back with Callie. With her back. Damn embers. "So they're -" I started to say, dumping some cold water on my mind's eye.

"Going to that address on North King," Dennis said. "He spoke to somebody else, too, somebody at police headquarters. He told them to see if there was a patrol car near the address who could swing past it, tell him what it was."

"Did he find out?"

"Yeah. Didn't take more than two minutes," Dennis said, indicating the clock on the wall that he must've been glancing at since I headed to the dressing room. He leaned close to me, conspiratorially. "I can't say for sure, but it sounded to me like it was one of those row houses that takes in boarders."

I nodded a bit. "Anything else?"

"Yeah," Dennis said. "After his partner showed up, he said he would call you at your office if he had something to share."

The office? And I have to sit by a phone with nothing but a pot of coffee and a deck of playing cards to keep my hands busy and my eyes open? Thanks a lot, Derek. "So much for my night off," I said.

"Hey, do you need an extra pair of eyes?" Dennis asked.

I smiled. "Thanks, but there's no need to keep you from the wife and kids. Besides, there probably won't be a call. I'll probably hear from him bright and early in the morning."

"You sure, George? I mean, I owe you."

I shook my head. I knew Dennis liked playing detective, but he was nowhere near ready for the reality. "You can help me by going home tonight, kissing your wife and kids, then getting a good night's sleep."

"Are you sure?" he asked again, as my cab appeared at the curb.

"Thanks for the hospitality tonight, Dennis," I said, putting a few fives in his palm. "I really must come back here again."

"And soon," Dennis said.

"Very soon," I replied.

* * *

><p>The taxi braked a bit too suddenly in front of the darkened four-story brick building that housed my office on its third floor. Out of habit, I looked toward the window of Webber's barber shop. No lights coming out of it, either, not even the sliver that would come out of the back room when he was conducting his after-hours business. The world was out for the night, and for a breath, I felt incredibly lonely. My mind drifted to Callie. I tried to push it to Maggie, but it didn't want to go to her right then. Part of me - a big part - was stung by her up-and-walking-out on me, and that sore spot was making me imagine my ex soothing my bruised ego in all sorts of ways.<p>

I shook off the fantasy for a bit, handed the driver his cash and climbed out of the car into the night. The street lamps flickered a bit as I walked to the door and pulled it open. I started thinking about where I had stashed my coffee as I made my way up the flights of stairs, my footfalls echoing through the empty hallways.

A phone began to ring as I walked down the hall to my office; I could tell by its short-tempered clattering that it was mine. I fumbled through my coat for the keys as the phone continued sounding its alarm. "Hold your horses," I groaned, as my fingers found the right one and I unlocked the door. I pushed my way inside, not even switching on the lights as I crossed the room.

"Hello," I said, rushing the receiver to my ear.

"O'Malley," I heard Derek say over a bit of a hum. "I was about to give up on you."

"I just got here," I grumbled. "Didn't really think you'd be calling."

"And it had nothing to do with Callie," he replied.

I could hear his smirk across the line. "No, it didn't," I snapped.

"Don't be getting touchy with me, O'Malley," Derek said. "I'm doing you a favor here."

"You're right," I muttered. "Sorry."

I listened to the sound of Derek flipping through notebook pages. "8221 North King is a six-room men's-only boarding house. Inside, we found a pair of male transients - both drunk but not disorderly, plus a couple of dockworkers, a severe-looking landlady ... and no blonde nurses. In fact, your Maggie's never even been there."

I shook my head. "What?"

I could hear the shrug in his voice. "Not tonight, not ever, at least according to Miss Congeniality."

"And no cabs showed up there either?"

"Nope," Derek replied. "Company says that the driver who would've been most likely to pick Maggie up in front of the Swan wasn't scheduled to return to the garage until 6 a.m. I'll have someone from graveyard tour swing by to snag a name and maybe ask a few questions."

"Did you call Seattle General? See if she was there?"

"Yeah, I called - she wasn't."

"Something's wrong about this."

"Yeah, I figured you'd think that. So do I, by the way."

"I mean, why would she ask a cab driver to take her to an address and then never show up?"

"Female prerogative? Could be that she just decided not to go there somewhere in the middle of the ride."

"But why give the driver that address to start with? It's not like she pulled that one out of a hat."

"Maybe she did want to go there. Then something made her decide not to."

"Or maybe she did go there," I said, "and somebody's lying to you. Did you have a chance to look around the place?"

"For a few minutes, yeah. It's clean."

"Spotless?"

"Probably not," Derek conceded. "But I'd need warrants to do a white-glove check. And with what I saw and heard, I've got nothing to take to a judge."

"Not the news I wanted."

"Me neither, George," he said. "Right now, I'm at a dead end. I need to go home, grab some sleep. And so do you."

"I don't think I can do that." I sighed. "I'm gonna check out her apartment, maybe she went home."

"Get some sleep. You can pick this up in the morning."

"No, I can't," I replied. "Maggie told your wife she had to go to the hospital. Then she gave a cab driver an address to a boarding house nowhere near the hospital. And then she didn't show up ... at either place. The more I say about it out loud, the worse it sounds."

Derek's exhale carried over the line. "Okay. See if she's home. Then call me immediately."

"At your house? Wouldn't that disturb your better half?"

"Not tonight, because I'll be at the station waiting for your call," he said sourly. "And thanks a lot, partner. I'll make sure to let the wife know that you ruined her night out."

"Wouldn't be the first time," I replied.


End file.
